Warriors with Wild Hearts
by stardustinthesky
Summary: Olivia Dunham is an extraordinary woman. Lincoln Lee can understand why Peter Bishop loves her so much. One story, three perspectives.
1. Part 1: Lincoln Lee

_warriors with wild hearts._ fringe. peter bishop/olivia dunham, lincoln lee. _olivia dunham is an extraordinary woman. lincoln lee can understand why peter bishop loves her so much._ one story, three perspectives.

* * *

><p>(Lincoln Lee)<p>

He exits the standard FBI-issued car and breathes in the crisp morning winter air, cups of coffee and bagels balanced on the small cardboard takeout tray. He squints at the apartment building across the street; even though it is barely 9 a.m., the curtains are still drawn, as if it was shutting the world out (and in some way, he thinks, it is). He shouldn't expect anything less; last night has been quite draining for everyone at Fringe Division.

Even if David Robert Jones is still rogue, at least Olivia is safe.

He's just becoming aware of the person walking down the street when he's reached the bottom of the stairs leading to Olivia's apartment building, his arms full with paper bags from what looks like the local supermarket. He's panting slightly, obviously in a hurry to come back from his errands as fast as possible.

"Hey," Peter greets.

Lincoln nods; the other man looks like he's been run over by a bus, jaw dark with bruises and cuts, and Lincoln remembers vividly the wild look his eyes during the time Olivia was missing, only to be replaced with something even deeper when he was reunited with the woman he loved, the both of them barely able to stand amidst the chaos of police cars and FBI agents and ambulances, but unwilling to let go.

"I was just stopping by to see if Olivia was okay," he says and helps Peter with the front door.

"She was still sleeping when I left," Peter says it as if it's the most natural thing in the world, which Lincoln presumes is. He still can't quite wrap the concept around his head; Olivia remembering a timeline that technically never existed, because of the drug in her and the powerful bond between her and the man she loves.

Peter tries to balance all bags in one arm to fumble with the keys dangling from his fingers and Lincoln offers to help him. "Thanks," Peter says gratefully before opening the door.

Everything is silent. Lincoln closes the door behind him as Peter grabs the paper bags and quietly heads for the kitchen. As Lincoln follows, he can barely make out the slumped form under the covers in the darkened bedroom on the far end of the apartment. "How is she doing?" Lincoln asks again, almost a whisper.

Peter navigates Olivia's kitchen with practiced ease, going from one cupboard to another. "Shaken up. Exhausted. But she will be fine. She's Olivia." There's pride in his voice when he says it, and Lincoln guesses that man's seen her fall down more times than it should have happened, but seen her always get back to her feet and move on. She bent under the pressure but never broke, strong as she is.

She is an extraordinary woman, indeed. And Lincoln can understand why Peter Bishop loves her so much.

_How far would you go for love?_

Apparently crossing universes and bending timelines, and everything in between. This is a story only the two of them are privy to now, not quite a secret thing but hidden nonetheless to the rest of the world, unaware, like a child playing hide-and-seek and peeking from around a tree, laughing and teasing.

"By the way, thanks for bringing breakfast," Peter says with a smile.

_Oh._ Lincoln stares at the groceries Peter brought back with him, and back to his own bag and Styrofoam cups and he realizes with a start that maybe he shouldn't be here at all. He's made it quite clear a couple of months ago that Olivia Dunham didn't leave him feeling indifferent and Peter may have even encouraged it while he was trying to get to a home he was already back to without knowing. But now that's changed, and Peter is indeed home, _with Olivia_. It's a subject Lincoln doesn't really want to broach, because how do you talk about that, really? "Maybe I should go."

Peter laughs quietly. "No, that's okay. You can stay."

So he stays. He sits awkwardly at the kitchen table while Peter deals with the mundane task of putting the groceries away. As if alert for every noise, he suddenly looks up. "'Livia?"

There's tossing and turning, and a contented hum. Then, the unmistakable sound of feet padding on the floorboards. "Peter." Her voice is hoarse and she looks ten times worse than last night, Lincoln thinks as she rounds the corner and into the small kitchen. Her eyes are sunken, a gash above her eyebrow barely held together with stitches and her lower lip has been split in two. Her long blonde hair is a wild mess, something Lincoln is not accustomed to seeing, her hair most of the time held in the restraints of an elastic band. She looks raw and almost feral, and beautiful at the same time, her eyes darker than usual. A warrior, really.

Her exposed arms and shoulders are covered with bruises, and her neck bears the evidence of two hands closing around her throat, angry red marks that makes Peter's jaw clench every time his eyes settle on that particular area, Lincoln notices.

"Hey Lincoln," she smiles before heading towards Peter.

Lincoln tries to advert his eyes but there's some sort of odd masochistic fascination in watching them. They kiss softly and she smiles against Peter's lips even if it seems to hurt, murmuring a soft "Good morning," to which he responds in kind. Her hands settle on his waist and he closes his eyes as he kisses her forehead. Their gaze cross just when their fingers tangle lazily, before they let go as he gently ushers her to sit, and even if it's a brief moment of intimacy, Lincoln wonders how he could have ever competed with Peter for Olivia's heart.

He's been there all along, even when she didn't know it.

"Lincoln brought breakfast."

Olivia looks up from her steaming cup of tea (_coffee will make your headache worse_, Peter gently reminds her) and he feels at a loss for words. "I just—I was just on my way to work and I thought I could see how you were doing—" _I forgot that Peter would be there. Of course he would be there._

"Thanks," she just says and doesn't tease him.

Lincoln doesn't stay long. Olivia eats a bagel half-heartedly only because she's a little hungry but looks more like she is going to nod off and dive nose first in her Earl Grey. Peter doesn't look much better, blinking slowly until a full blown yawn escapes his mouth. "Sorry," he says, all the while rubbing Olivia's back. He then stops, as if realizing what he's been doing and gives her a sheepish smile.

Lincoln checks his watch. "I should get going." He doesn't let them protest, not that they would put up much of a fight anyway; they look seconds away from hitting the sack again.

For a moment there, he envies Peter Bishop very much. He imagines them lying in bed together, too exhausted to do anything else but sleep, but holding onto each other in their sleep, fingers tangled as they face each other. He can just even start trying to imagine the contentment on her face, because the hole in her life she talked about during his first week at Fringe Division isn't there anymore.

So yes, he envies Peter Bishop in that moment; not because he is with Olivia and he's the one giving her that sense of peace she was desperately looking for, but because they have each other, because they have this _something_ tangible in their life and because the love they have for each other has made things beyond the impossible _possible_, pushed back all limitations.

"See you at the office," he finally says and she waves him goodbye, thanking him for the bagels and a coffee she didn't drink.

The door closes with a definite click behind him. He walks out in the crisp morning air, inhales deeply. The sun is rising fast and bright. There's a ton of paperwork waiting for him but compared to the wild chaos of last night, he welcomes the relief of doing a task as mundane as this. Maybe they have only made it as far as the eye of the storm yet and the fight isn't over, far from it.

But still.

Today looks full of possibilities, though.

* * *

><p>(end part 1)<p> 


	2. Part 2: Peter Bishop

_warriors with wild hearts._ fringe. peter bishop/olivia dunham, lincoln lee. _he's done this once before, pumping himself full of lsd to enter someone else's mind and save her; he's always known that he'd do it again in a heartbeat._ one story, three perspectives.

* * *

><p>(Peter Bishop)<p>

He wakes up to the low hum of early morning traffic, and Olivia's hair tickling his face. He blinks slowly, checks the clock on his side of the bed (_his side of the bed_, he thinks with the same kind of wonder he's been feeling ever since he looked into her eyes and found his lover there) andsees that it is just past 7 a.m. He lets his eyelids close heavily again and shifts closer to her, his nose pressed against her cheek and his arm heavy on her stomach.

It doesn't take him long to find sleep again.

He's been mostly awake during the 48 hours he's been looking for her both physically and consciously. He's wandered her mind once to find her; he had no hesitation wandering the mind of an Observer to find her again.

The next time he wakes up, it is a little after 8:30. He carefully stretches and yawns, his stomach growling loudly in the relative silence of her apartment. He hears another growl, coming from her this time, but she doesn't wake up.

He checks her fridge and cupboards with a shake of his head and shuffles his feet sleepily all the way to the bathroom. He showers and dresses quickly before leaving a note on the bedside table by her side and gently kisses her cheek, lets his lips linger there for a moment.

"I love you," he murmurs against her warm skin.

He's quick to the task; still exhausted but the cold air invigorates him just enough. He doesn't waste time wandering the aisles of a nearby local store; he grabs what he needs and quickly makes it back to her apartment, his arms full, his stride long.

That's when he spots Lincoln Lee.

It's no surprise to find the FBI agent at this hour of day, standing outside Olivia's apartment building with coffee in hand. Peter's seen the friendly bond Olivia had developed with her partner and he has even encouraged it, so convinced that he wasn't home when all signs indicated that he was. But it seems that, even if Lincoln's affection towards Olivia was pretty obvious, at some point Olivia decided not to pursue anything.

And in the end, Peter's glad.

Lincoln spots him long before Peter's reached the stairs, looking a little bit unsure all of a sudden. "Hey," Peter greets him and nods towards the front door. Lincoln follows him.

"I was just stopping by to see if Olivia was okay," he offers as an explanation and helps open the door for a struggling Peter.

Peter tells him to go first and he closes the door with his foot. "She was still sleeping when I left." He tries to balance the grocery bags in one hand, but even with his genius IQ, there is no way he's going to open that door without having half of the bags emptying themselves in the corridor.

"Here, let me," Lincoln says and takes one of the bags.

"Thanks," he says and unlocks the door. Once he's retrieved the key and put it back into his back pocket, he takes the bag back from Lincoln's arms, leaving him to quietly close the door. While he goes straight in the kitchen, he senses that the other man's hovering by the door, undoubtedly looking for the one person he came to see.

The bedroom is still quite dark, but not dark enough that he can't see that Olivia's stretched out in bed, lying on her stomach, one foot peeking from under the duvet. In that moment, the only thing Peter really wants is to slip back under the covers with her and listen to the soft sound of her breathing, lulling him back to sleep.

But then, they have company and Peter is not going to send Lincoln on his way just because he wants to be alone with Olivia. He is nothing but grateful for his help, for all the practical and sensible things he did while Peter was silently losing his mind and doing reckless things like entering the mind of a dying Observer, even though it proved to be fruitful.

He's done this once before; he's always known that he'd do it again in a heartbeat.

"How is she doing?" Lincoln asks as Peter's putting the groceries away.

"Shaken up. Exhausted. But she will be fine." He pauses, searching for the right word. In the end, he settles for the obvious. "She's Olivia."

_She's Olivia. And no matter how many times they try to bring her down, she always gets up and proves them wrong._ Peter's proud to say that this is not just the woman he loves, but that this very woman decided that _he_ was worth it; that despite all the things he's done in the past, she made him a better man.

He used to be a nomad, going from one place to another, never really forming ties with anyone. Now he can't think of being anywhere else, _with anyone else_.

"By the way, thanks for bringing breakfast," he adds.

Lincoln seems to be tripping over himself for a moment, staring at the still half-full grocery bags and back to his own smaller one, and Peter thinks he knows what is going on right now, at least he thinks he does. He has yet to be a permanent fixture in Olivia's apartment, and the very recent development between them has thrown everyone for a loop. What has been normal for the two of them for months has just resumed after being put on hold, and the rest of Fringe Division clearly wasn't prepared for _this_, for something they had never witnessed in the first place. So, judging by the two cups of coffee Lincoln brought with him, he wasn't expecting Peter to be here.

And really, he can't blame the guy for this.

"Maybe I should go," Lincoln says.

Peter shakes his head, laughing quietly. "No, that's okay. You can stay." He really doesn't mind. Lincoln Lee's a good asset in the field, and a good person at heart. He can see himself becoming friends with the guy.

Lincoln sits at the kitchen table, looking around with curious eyes and Peter guesses he's never been here long enough to truly feel comfortable there.

He suddenly hears the covers ruffling, breaking the relative silence. "'Livia?" he calls.

There's more tossing and turning. "Hmm," is the only reply. The sound is familiar to his ears, low and throaty.

A drawer is pulled open then closed, and a few moments later she's walking in the kitchen with a frown, eyelids heavy with sleep and she's the most beautiful sight he's ever seen. "Peter," she says his name in that sleepy whisper, the way that makes him want to gather her in his arms and never let go, and in that moment he doesn't care if they have an audience.

She greets Lincoln with a smile before walking to Peter and he kisses her gently, aware of the cut on her lips but she's smiling, _smiling and this possibly can't be real_. He feels like he's drowning into one of his dreams but she feels so real, so warm under his touch and this is suddenly really overwhelming. His lips linger on her forehead for a long moment, and he closes his eyes, reveling in the feel of her.

When they part and he's finally made her sit, she thanks Lincoln for the bagels and his cheeks tinge with red. Olivia apparently notices it, glances briefly at Peter but says nothing.

She slowly sips the tea he's prepared and munches on a bagel. They don't talk much; everything from the past 48 hours has been a whirlwind of mind-boggling events and it's still a little bit too early to even try and make sense out of it with a foggy mind. Soon, this will be all they will talk and theorize about. But not now.

"Hey," he says to Olivia and she blinks, her eyes bleary. He yawns and stretches, his hand finding her back and beginning to run in circles. It's only a matter of seconds before he realizes what he is doing and he stops, lets his hand fall at his side and Olivia grins knowingly.

Lincoln excuses himself not long after, talking about paperwork and such. Olivia thanks him for bringing breakfast and Lincoln pauses, _you're welcome_, and then he's gone.

A few minutes later, Peter yawns again, so hard that his eyes water. Olivia gets to her feet and takes his hand, gently coaxing him into following her back to bed. She helps him out of his long-sleeved t-shirt while he deals with his shoes and socks. Then he's laughing breathlessly, tangling his fingers into her hair when she kisses his neck and unzips his jeans at the same time. "You kidding, right?" He feels like all he could do for the next 24 hours is sleep, and even though he'd like nothing more than re-map her skin with his hands and lips, he's not sure his body could be up to _this_ now.

Not all of his body, _per se_.

"Just sleep," she says, pulling her down with him.

They face each other, foreheads touching and he can't resist; he nuzzles her nose with his and he's reminded of their last morning together before everything went to hell, how blissful it was (_I could get used to this_.), up until their phones rang.

"Does it still hurt?" he asks, barely brushing his fingers against her throat. He feels sick every time his eyes settle on finger-shaped marks on the delicate expanse of her throat. Fury burns in the pit of his stomach every time he sees them, can picture these two hands closing around her throat and he knows he could grab the bastard who did this and do the same thing to him just as easily.

"Not really," she replies and he kisses a particularly tender spot.

It's much, much later when they wake up, somewhere around 3 p.m. She says, "Welcome back," and kisses the scar on his hand and they slowly re-learn each other as they make love, unhurried and it is so good that it feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest.

It's only been four months and it feels only like it was yesterday, and at the same time, like a lifetime ago. They cling to each other, their fingers lacing together on her pillowcase as her legs tighten around his waist and her free hand claws at his back.

It's the best feeling in the world, an elation he can't quite describe with words; like coming home, her earlier words all the more appropriate. In this moment, it is only them, universes and timelines be damned. There is still so much to do, later they will talk about it while they'll eat Chinese takeout on her couch and tomorrow, when she'll get ready for work (and she'll look at his reflection in the mirror with a smirk and leave her hair free for once and he'll say something about her being a tease) and they will brainstorm at the lab or at the FBI headquarters.

But right now, he can't think of anything else than this moment and Olivia – _his_ Olivia – and nothing else matters.

* * *

><p>(end part 2)<p> 


	3. Part 3: Olivia Dunham

_warriors with wild hearts._ fringe. peter bishop/olivia dunham, lincoln lee. _peter bishop is not only the man she loves; he is a part of her, as much as she is part of him. they're like the universes, different entities, but intertwined._ one story, three perspectives.

* * *

><p>(Olivia Dunham)<p>

She kicks off her shoes and socks, gets rid of her pants and unbuttons her shirt. She looks down at her battered body, the bruises like a constellation on her pale skin. She needs a drink.

She frowns, staring at her reflection in the mirror and puts pressure on the tender flesh surrounding the gash above her left eyebrow. She grimaces but doesn't make a sound; instead, she leans heavily against the sink and sighs. The Alternate Nina Sharp is in custody right now and the other one – the Nina who raised her and Rachel and _God that part of her life is so fuzzy right now _– is at the hospital, under both heavy sedatives and protection.

David Robert Jones is still at large.

She remembers vividly the night, back that first year, when he was caught in the portal as Peter closed it; remembers the incredulous look on his face before half of his body slumped on the ground, the other half a rainy universe away. She's felt no jubilation then, and she doubts she would if it happened again, but in the end, the son of the bitch deserves nothing else than to pay for what he's done.

Something catches on her eyelashes, before sloshing down in the sink. She looks down; dark red and thick, it slowly dissolves, and is soon followed by more drops. "Well, shit," she mutters and goes in search of the cotton balls she _knows_ she keeps somewhere around there.

By the time she finds her prize and closes the cabinet above the sink, Peter's walking in the bathroom. He has just finished taking off his ruined shirt and is about to throw it away when he freezes. "God, 'Livia."

She could protest; could say that she can very well take care of herself and that she is _fine_, but truth is, tonight she needs him. She needs to feel him close to her in more ways than one and it is indeed really nice to let him take care of her every once in a while. She doesn't want to rely solely on him, but sometimes she understands it is okay to just have someone else to share some of the burden with.

She half-sits gingerly on the edge of the sink, her toes barely touching the floor, her fingers curling in the belt loops of Peter's jeans for balance while he gently dabs at the gash and tries to stop the bleeding. In that moment, she wants to kiss him; part of it may be due to the high of the adrenaline and Cortexiphan she can still feel coursing through her veins, but for the most part, she just _wants_ him.

He holds her face gently with one hand while the other tends to her wound, and the bleeding finally stops after a few minutes. He's very tactile tonight, she notices. He's always been a very tactile person, his beautiful hands always touching her somehow but they seem to be everywhere at once.

(they're on her face while trying to stop her gash from bleeding, and when he's done, his hand skims down to her hip, brushing the underside of her breast on its way past it, his other hand settling on her naked thigh. She's always liked his hands; she's always loved them more on her.)

"You have blood in your hair," he says with a frown, smoothing her hair away from her face.

"You have mud in yours," she replies.

The rest of what little clothing they were still wearing goes into a pile in a corner of the room. She pulls the shower curtain shut and turns on the water. They share a long, hot shower, careful not to trip in her slippery bathtub, and take turns under the stream. He helps her with washing her hair, taking exaggerated care at massaging her scalp (unlike with her back, she really enjoys his hands there) and she helps him with his, thumbs rubbing his temples in soothing circles.

Afterwards, they stand a long time under the stream of hot water to relax their muscles, bodies pressed together. She looks at him for a long time, memorizing the lines of his face, her fingers playing with the hair curling on his forehead.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks and she shakes her head.

"Not now. Later." There will be time for this, just not now; now she just wants to forget all the ugliness of the world for a while. So she holds him close to her and buries her face in the junction between neck and shoulder, their bodies swaying slightly back and forth to a tune only they know.

He's already asleep in bed when she's done drying her hair.

She draws the curtains shut and turns off the light before climbing under the covers, not bothering to set the alarm clock for once. She curls her frame around his, his back to her chest, and she buries her face in the crook of his neck, her breathing in sync with his.

The next thing she knows is that she's alone in bed.

She hears hushed voices coming from the kitchen and she recognizes them as being Peter's and Lincoln's. She feels disoriented for a second and then it rushes back to her: her talk with Peter in the car, being kidnapped, Nina having been replaced by Alternate Nina, David Robert Jones, the tests, escaping, Peter finding her. She closes her eyes, dizzy.

Then, as if sensing she's awake, she hears Peter calling her name, in the way that's always been his and his alone. "'Livia?" She hums as a reply, loving the sound of his voice in the morning, still rough with sleep, reassuring.

Her stomach growls and she realizes she's quite hungry. She sighs and gets up, pulling sweatpants on before going in her kitchen. "Peter," she says as the light hits her in the face, too bright for her eyes, making her squint. She finds Lincoln seated at the table and Peter busy with filling a kettle she forgot she owned with water.

"Hey Lincoln," she acknowledges the other man with a smile and kisses Peter good morning. They stand there for a moment, her hands squeezing his waist and his lips on her forehead, taking comfort in each other's presence before she sits down.

She eats a bagel from the small paper bag on the middle of the table, which Peter points out to be from Lincoln. She thanks him for that, which makes Lincoln's cheeks turn red. It makes her smile and she thinks about how close to him she has become in the past few months, how even closer to him she seemed to want to be for a while. She wonders what would have happened if Peter had not come back (this is something she's not fond of thinking about very much; but it seems that no matter what, she's always been close to the younger Bishop, like metal and magnet).

What-ifs are not something she really wants to think about right now but then, she can't help but wonder. She likes Lincoln Lee, that is a fact. He's a very decent guy and a wonderful friend, but there's always been something in the back of her mind pulling her back. She didn't know it then, but she knows it now and truth be told, she's secretly relieved.

She loves Peter Bishop like she's never loved anyone else. Not even John.

"Hey." She's pulled off from her thoughts when Peter begins running circles on her back with his hand, but he stops before she has time to let him know what he's doing. She can't help but grin at the memory of a discussion in a car not so long ago. (_I don't like it._

_Really?_)

They don't broach the subject of Jones and Cortexiphan and she's grateful for Lincoln's discretion. Truth is, she doesn't feel like she's up to having that particular conversation _now_. She'd like nothing more than to crawl back into bed and sleep. Then, she'll be back at work as soon as possible.

"See you at the office," Lincoln says.

"Sure thing," she replies. "And thanks for the bagels." _And everything_, she doesn't say.

But he seems to get it and offers her a half-smile. "You're welcome." He's really one of the best men she has ever met, and in that moment she really wishes the best for him, because he deserves it. (and because she can't be the one for him, not in this timeline or universe. Not like that.

She really hopes they will have a great, lasting friendship, like she had with Charlie. Maybe not quite the same, but equally amazing.)

When Lincoln's gone and Peter's yawning for the umpteenth time, she gets to her feet and takes his hand. He follows suit, without question, just like that first time in his kitchen a timeline ago, and she takes his shirt off for him. His skin is warm under her touch, his stomach twitching as she runs her hands lower, finding the zipper of his jeans and pulling it down.

It's a sweet temptation that she succumbs to, her lips pressing against his throat in an open-mouth kiss and she feels him swallow hard, his hands fisting into her hair. "You kidding, right?" he asks, his voice thick as his pants pool around his ankles.

"Just sleep," she assures him, even though he's already half-hard. Even though she'd like nothing more than to take care of that now, she really _is_ too exhausted.

She pulls him down with her and they lie facing each other. She smiles when he nuzzles his nose with hers in an Eskimo kiss, something she realized very early in their relationship was one of his favorite things to do. "Does it still hurt?" he asks and she's puzzled for a moment, before he gently reminds her, his fingers brushing her throat in the lightest of touches.

"Not really," she replies. He shifts and leans on one elbow to kiss her throat. When he lies back, she gently bumps her forehead against his in acknowledgement and laces their fingers together, before their breathing even out and soon silence reigns over the apartment again.

She wakes up long before Peter does.

Her bedroom feels stuffy and saturated and she wants nothing more than to pull the curtains and open the window, and yet she doesn't and stays in bed instead.

Again, she seems to be fascinated by his face, the frown on his forehead not as deep when he sleeps and she runs her thumb over it, trying to smooth down the hard line. He stirs and blinks several times before his eyes focus on her. "Hey," she says softly. "Welcome back."

They don't talk after that; they make love lazily, languidly and she welcomes the weight of him against her, pressing her into the mattress. She meets his strokes leisurely, loves the way the hair on his chest tickles her breasts as he moves.

"So good," she moans into his ear, his pace quickening and her thighs tightening around his hips. The building sensation between her legs is both maddening and overwhelming and she squeezes his hand hard enough her knuckles turn white. She's also pretty sure her nails will leave marks on his back but in that moment she doesn't really care.

She cuddles into his side afterwards, feeling positively boneless and spent. She kisses him once, twice and laughs against his lips when two turns into three and four and five. There are still so many threats hanging over their heads but for the next few hours, she wants to live in this safe cocoon, if only for a little while longer. "You make me happy," she says and she means it.

He doesn't say anything, just smiles but by the look in his eyes, she knows he is too.

* * *

><p>—end.<p> 


End file.
